The Masturbation Chronicles: Tale No. 1 Steve's Unknown Needs By Glaucon
Disclaimer:
If you are not yet 18 years of age, or if it is illegal to read materials of this kind where you live, then please stop now. This story is for adults, and contains descriptions of sexual activity between teenage boys with older men. This story is completely fiction, all descriptions and names are also made up, and any similarities are truly just that, purely similarities. These are fantasies for sexual private sexual enjoyment, not for emulation in real life.
This current story line is entitled "The Masturbation Chronicles" and will be a series of discreet stories focused around the theme of uncontrollable masturbation and its consequences. I would truly appreciate suggestions from others for scenes or settings, and of course descriptions of real scenes. Often my stories have been woven from tales shared with me by those of you who comment on my stories. So please consider writing to me.
Please contact me at glaucon55@aol.com.
Steve Wilson was the no. 2 wrestler in his weight class at Central Florida University; 150 lbs. But at 5' 6" inches, that meant he was a compact, hard body, chiseled into perfection by years of practice, sweat, and weight lifting. As he stood in front of his bathroom full length mirror, he admired the nineteen years of investment he had made in body. His feet were broad, and surprisingly large for a guy 5'6", size 10.5. His toes were long and curved in, not pudgy. His ankles were muscled and narrow from his heels to his muscular calf, and he pronated slightly accenting the way his toes gripped his flip-flops and grass, and rugs, whatever was beneath his toes. His body was thickly furred with a thatch of strawberry curls from ankles to the tops of his thighs, turning auburn as it trailed deeply into his ass crack. From the dark thatch above his cock, to the branches circling his jutting pectoral muscles, the hair remained darker red, and then lightened on his arms and fingertips, only to darken again in his arm pits, eyebrows, and in the roots of his otherwise strawberry blond butch hair cut. His blue eyes, long eyelashes, and turned up nose made him look almost boyish, but there was nothing boyish about his cock. Five inches soft, straight and thick, so that when Steve threw a bone the head on his cock looked like a fat plum, with a smooth glans, a wide flange and deep piss lips. Erect, Steve's cock was 7.5 rigid inches thrusting straight out from his hanging balls, always covered with a soft sheen of ball sweat from his sperm filled nut sack. Steve put his arms behind his head, and pushed out his chest, his diamond chip nipples jutting from the edge of his pecs through the soft halo of hair that circled each one, and sucking in his washboard stomach. As his eyes scanned from his feet up his legs, to his cock and navel, then up to his handsome face, Steve wondered if others lusted for his body as much as he enjoyed looking at it. His cock rose, like it always did when he posed in front of the mirror, rising slowly up and out, a pearl of clear fluid filling the pisswell and drooling down the sensitive glans. Steve Williams might be the no. 2 wrestler on the Concordia, Division III wrestling team, but the body he sported was no. 1 in the eyes of many on the campus.
Steve wanted badly to grasp his boner and begin a systematic masturbation of the thick prong. But his wrestling ethic and his upbringing provided a convenient way to keep him horny, and helplessly stiff. Each day, whether boxers or briefs, he had to change them from the dry pre-fuck that dripped from his fat knob. But that's the way Steve liked it...knowing that his body was a sex crazed machine that was always just on the edge of some abyss of fuck indulgence, needing to spurt wads and wads of cum before he could be calmed and sated. Steve Williams was a walking wet dream, and he was also walking wet...often leaking from just the hunger to cum...a hunger that he managed so that when he did shoot his sticky starch, it would fill a small dish.
In the library on campus, late at night studying, he would slide a hand down under the table, under his jacket, and slowly massage his prick knob into a frenzy, making it slick with sticky boy juice. Sometimes he would have to close his eyes, and put his head down, needing to continue to masturbate in that position because the sensations on his cock head were driving him so close. But before he could make a mistake, he would stop...his hands sometimes shaking from the need to squeeze his boner into to submission. Good Catholic boys knew it was a sin to jerk-off, and all those years in parochial school from 12 to 18 had burned into his brain guilt for his inability to control his sexual appetite.
Steve would wait until Friday night, or Sunday morning before Mass, to finally relieve himself. Sure he'd go out with the guys and drink brews, stare at chicks, and make fuck talk on Thursday and Saturday nights. But he knew that what he wanted more than anything else was to fuck the pillow or have someone sneak in to his room and tie him down and milk him. He could have the former, but he could only dream about the latter, and it would make his boner throb with anticipation.
There was that time at Boy's Camp, run by the parish church when Steve was almost twelve. Already, he had a thick boy spike, almost four inches long when erect, with a nice fat knob that leaked sap. He had never cum though, dry or wet, and learned what masturbation was that summer from his bunkmate, Carey Larson. Carey had the blondest hair, and the bluest eyes, and at thirteen, he had already blossomed with a deep voice and hair on his well proportioned teen body. The first night, Steve had felt their bunk-bed bouncing, and he leaned out to see what was happening. He could dimly see that Carey was grinding his torso on the bed above. He quietly slipped out of his bed, thinking that something was wrong and he should help the boy he already admired and looked up after the first day at camp. Carey's eyes were shut, and his hips were driving into the bed, rising and pushing forward, his big boy feet had slipped from under the sheet and blanket, and the long, muscular toes were flexing as he continued to force himself against the bedding. Steve watched mesmerized, when suddenly Carey's eyes opened for a moment as his breathing had become labored, and he saw Steve standing in his pajama bottoms watching him. He looked around furtively to see if anyone else in their six person cabin was awake, and he put a finger up to his mouth immediately, signaling Steve to be quiet. He motioned Steve over to the bed, and spoke, "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I was worried, I felt the beds moving, and I saw it was coming from your bed. I thought maybe something was wrong, maybe you were sick cause of the way you were rolling around..." Steve said innocently.
"Fuck no... I was jerking off? Haven't you ever screwed the bed? Jeez dude, now my nuts are in a knot...I gotta cum," Carey said in a straight-forward manner, his deep voice sounding like god to Steve.
Steve knew about jerking off, and cum, he had heard about all about it from guys as school, and their older brothers. But he had been too shy to let on that he had not done it, and did not know what to do. Fortunately, Carey broke the silence and helped Steve cross that barrier. "Shit, you wanna come with me to the john, we can do it together...maybe we can use some soap?" Carey's long legs, and size ten feet slipped over the edge of the bunkbed silently, and down to the floor. He waved to Steve to follow him his, once again putting his finger to his mouth to indicate that they had to be quiet. But what was most conspicuous to Steve, was the way that Carey's pajama bottoms thrust out obscenely from his crotch when he stood, and the dark wet spot that had collected on the front of the pants. Once again mesmerized, Steve just followed the older boy.
Their bare feet padded into the cabin latrine on tip toes, to keep their movement as quiet as possible. Steve followed, trusting Carey implicitly. The older teen motioned him into the disabled stall, required by law even at the camp. The light was dim, but the emergency/night light cast enough of a glow to allow the two boys to see each other. Carey whispered to his new friend: "How often do you jerk it?"
Even in the darkness, Steve blushed. He looked down to his feet as he answered in a hushed tone: "I don't jerk off, I, ah, I never learned how."
"Dude, you haven't spanked the monkey...fuck...you don't know what you've been missing. I've been working my boner since I was ten...that's when my cousin showed me. He stayed at my house for a week during the summer, and we shared a bed. Jeez, he started the first night, sliding his fucking hand inside my pajamas when I fell asleep. When I woke up, he had given me a boner, and had slicked up his hand with spit. I almost yelled out, but he clamped a hand over my mouth and told me if I wanted to be a big boy, I should shut up. Damn, he just kept strokin' me while he talked, and by the time I tried to protest, he thumbed my knob till I went rigid and had a fucking cum. It was the best...and so I did what he said. He made me cum two more times that night, milking my boner like a champ, and for the rest of that week, we jerked each other off. He was twelve, and he could cum, so he showed me what gism looked like. He also showed me how to make myself cum by rubbing my boner into the sheets. He said it was like fucking a cunt, so that's what I was doing. I'll show you how to do it with slick stuff, and then you can practice in your own bed."
Steve's boner leaked copiously as he thought back on how Carey's firm teen hand had taken charge of his four inch pricklet, and using spit since they had forgotten to get soap as they entered the latrine, he has grasped the younger boy's prong after pulling it through his pajama fly, and began to masturbate him. Steve remembered how his eyes opened wide, and then closed from the overwhelming sensations, as Carey's fingers slid up and down his shaft, and his thumb rolled back and forth over the boy's sensitive glans. Steve tried to grab Carey's hand when he concentrated attention on Steve's throbbing dick knob, but the older boy whispered to him to stop acting like a kid, and then pulled him around and forced Steve to rest against him. With his back leaning on Carey's chest, the older boy also slid his free hand up the boy's chest and found one of his nipples, stiff but previously unexplored territory for Steve. Again Steve gasped as Carey's fingernail scratched across the stiff teat tip, and then gently pinched it, and forced his pricklet into his new friends milking hand. Steve had closed his eyes tight, leaned back on the older boy, and gasped, his head thrashing back and forth as his pricklet wet rigid, the glans expanded, and his boy dick throbbed for almost fifteen seconds as Carey held him tight and made him almost faint from the sensation.
Carey smiled as he felt the younger boy writhing against him, making his own boner throb, and as his cousin did to him, he held Steve tight and continued to slide his slick fingers over and over the fevered prong tip, almost making Steve fall to the floor from the incredible tickle once he had his dry cum. Finally, Steve pried his friend's finger off of his still stiff pricklet, Then Carey had whispered to him to help him out. He dropped his pajama bottoms to his ankles, and Steve saw the six inch dick on his older buddy, thicker than his, and with a pale fat knob and a deep pisswell. He showed Steve how to lick his palm and put the younger boys hand over his sticky prick, wet from his own pre-fuck that had leaked since he had started rutting the bed earlier, and dripped copiously once he began to beat off the younger boy's pricklet.
Steve followed his friend's direction and awkwardly began to slide his smaller hand up and down the thick teen fuck stick. As he followed the older boy's directions, it became easier, and with the copious lube that was drooling from Carey's cock head, Steve moved his wrist faster and faster. Soon, the older boy leaned back against the partition of the stall, and thrust out his hips, letting the younger boy's fist take control of his fevered prick. Faster and faster Steve moved his hands, his eyes glued to the head of the bigger boy's cock, getting red and ruddy from his chaffing fist. Carey closed his eyes, and bent his knees slightly as four thick spurts of boy spunk squirted across the stall and hit the opposite wall, then dribbled over Steve's still moving fist. Like his mentor, Steve refused to let go, and milked the older boy's prong until he hunched over and finally grabbed Steve's had and pulled it off his aching cock knob, stopping him from crying out from the agonizing tickle.
That night, after they returned to their beds, the two boys once again rutted against their respective bedding, grinding their stiff boy prongs into the soft material, wringing one dry cum and one wet one from each of them. For Steve, the idea that his friend was fucking the bed above him, made his own pricklet throb with pleasure as he learned how to grind and to batter his sensitive prick tip into the sheet and blanket, fucking the bed as nature intended. From that night on, Steve used frottage to satisfy his constant fuck lusts, day and night. He and Carey never played with each other's dick's again, but even seven years later, that experience made Steve's cock weep lube, making the material of his boxers tickle his prick tip whenever he let his memories flood back.
Now, with Friday here, the hunky college wrestler looked to his bed for relief. The guys had gone to a local bar and ogled the pussy that was there looking for prick for the night. At least two of the guys had left with girls who they met, the rest of the guys staring with hungry envy knowing that their buddies would be soaking their stiff pricks in wet pussy later than night. The others, including Steve, adjusted their half hard cocks during the rest of the evening, finally leaving around midnight, drunk and horny for their respective sessions of masturbation. Steve walked in the door, his cock already ramrod stiff by the time he got out of the elevator and let himself into the door of his apartment, the one-eyed brain already focused on its pleasure. He quickly closed the door, and kicked off his flip-flops, pulled his t-shirt over his head, and unzipped his shorts, sliding them and his boxers off in one movement. His raging erection flopped up to his stomach, splattering his hard abdominal muscles with the sticky residue of his fuck-lube, now coating the tingling knob.
He was glad he had pissed in the bar john before he came home, because he did not have the will to make his prick go soft now. He moved quickly into his bedroom, and went to the closet to pull out his favorite fuck toy, his pillow. The soft cushion came from a yard sale near his apartment, red, an appropriate color for a stud fucker like Steve. When he purchased it, he cut a four inch slit, then used some rubber cement to seal the opening from tearing without creating a hard edge around the opening. Then he used skills he had learned in a home economics class during summer school in high school to reduce his requirements for wrestling. He sewed a cotton wash cloth with firm button snaps that connected it to the material around the slit in the pillow, beyond the rubber cement lips. Now he could remove the soft terry cloth lining each time he used the pillow, and then return it. Eventually he made three replacement linings so he could wash them at his leisure. Now, Steve was ready.
Before he dove onto his bed, he stood before the closet door mirror and let his beauty sink in, his thick turgid erection, his short but almost perfect form; from his large feet to his classic face. Steve opened the drawer to his nightstand and pulled out a tube of lubricant. He squirted a large amount onto his pulsing boner watching it melt and drip on his hot prong, and then he squirted more into the slit opening of the pillow and onto the washcloth lining inside. His head still heavy and groggy and reeling from the beers he had consumed earlier. So he half-climbed and then fell onto his bed, sliding his hands up and down his torso and making sure to flick his stiff teats, that caused him to groan out loud from their delicious sensitivity. Then he raised his hips, maneuvering the pillow under his body and angling his slightly upcurved shaft so he thrust it into the hole of the cushion, and began a frenzied screwing.
"Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhh fuck...oh shit, yes...yesssssss......ah jeeeeeezuz, fuck you, you bitch, take my fat cock, take it...aaaaaggggghhhhh..... oooooooohhhhhhhh, fuuuccckkk, oh yessssss, work my prick you bitch, work it...!" His throbbing prong was covered in sticky lubricant and each thrust made it tingle with excruciating sensations that caused the shaft to stiffen and the knob to swell. Finally Steve had the opportunity to say what he wanted to say every day all day long, what he wanted to grunt and groan and cry out if his fantasy of someone taking over his prick and milking it. The cushion opening was just large enough to cram his eight inch prick deeply inside, and the consistency of the filing around the cotton lining created enough friction with the lubricated and sticky terry cloth, to simulate a pussy or cunt, masturbating the itchy surface of Steve's prick and making him writhe and drive his dick even more, like some Pavalovian dog, into the pillow and down against the bed. He had to hold onto the pillow so that he did not lose the it. As he lifted his hips and drove down firmly, grinding his prick into the cotton lining, his asshole appeared between his flexing ass cheeks, revealing the wet, dark auburn hairs protecting his itchy anal knot. The beautiful dimples on each of his butt cheeks, filled and hollowed as he flexed and fucked. Steve was fully focused on his prick grinding into the sticky material, tickling and scrubbing his prick knob and shaft to sweet heights of sensation. He did not think of other parts of his body like his ass, or his nipples, or all the other ticklish and sensitive spots from ears to toes. Since he was eleven and learned from Carey how to masturbate, he indulged in this guilty pleasure on the weekends, justifying himself by the desperate sacrifice he made waiting all week for his ejaculations. Oh, he would soap his prick in the shower, and tickle his knob till he was breathless, but he denied himself the lustful cums he craved until his appointed nights. For Steve, driving his fuck stick into the pillow was what he needed, what he wanted twenty-four hours a day, and finally he was granting himself the privilege after making the requisite sacrifices for days. "OOooooohh fucking shit... aaaaaaahhhhhhhh, yeah, oh yeah...oh my goooooooddddd, make me cum, make me, cum.... aaaggghhhh!" From behind Steve's long toes bent sharply as he leveraged his muscular frame and kept his fuck stroke going, his strong, hairy thighs making the nasty pillow cunt pay for every day he had to wait for this fuck.
For thirteen long minutes he thrust his prick into that soft, sticky hole working his prong tip relentlessly. But the long days of abstinence, his constant need and desire to ejaculate, and the sensitive cap of his fat prick head were too much for him to continue to resist. The time had cum...."AAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH, SHIT, FUCK, CUNT, PRICK, OOOOOHHHH, MAKE ME, MAKE ME CUM....OOOOOOOHHHHHH YYYEEEESSSSS ....NOOOOWWW, I GOTTA CUM, I CAN'T HELP IT, OH FUCK MAKE ME CUM, MAKE ME CUM!" Like clockwork, volley after volley of thick teen spooge bolted from the wide piss lips on Steve's fat prick head. His glans went glass smooth, and the cotton tortured him mercilessly as his hips involuntarily continued to grind into the pillow, until the entire wash cloth was completely soaked with the starchy, clorine smelling gism.
Steve wanted to stop, needed to because of how sensitive his prick knob was, but the sweet tickle was so amazing, he continued to grind his hips into the bed, rolling the pillow around his tingling knob until he couldn't take it one more second, and he suddenly rolled over onto his back and pulled the sticky faux pussy off his prong. When he did so, his shaft stood tall, still pulsing, the whole shaft and head covered in a coating of clear and white viscous clots of boy spunk. Steve's chest continued to heave, and his ass reflexively ground into the bed, even though his fucking had ended. He bent his legs and gripped the disheveled bedding with his long, thick toes. His nipples continued to just from the rounded mounds of his pectorals, thrusting up from the halo of hair around them and animated by his heaving chest.
He groaned one last time, closed his eyes, and after a few more gasps and grunts, soon began to snore. He lay nude on his bedding, a sheen of sweat matting the hair on his torso, legs, and arms, his huge prick now softening as it lay over his big duck egg balls, roiling in their sack and emitting the ballsy sweat stink that makes boys, boys. Soon enough, Steve's routine on weekends would end, and he would find his life changed in ways he could not even imagine. But for the time being, Catholic jock punk and prick obsessed, Steve Wilson had earned his weekly reprieve, and long days of longing and need would begin again.
It was the next week that Steve's life changed forever. He had worked hard to make the team, but when the roster for the middle-weights was posted, his name was not on it. There were three at large spots on the team that remained open, and the coach indicated on the bottom of the roster that he would allow separate trials to determine how to fill the spots. Steve was determined to make one of those spots, but how would the coach determine the tests? Fuck, coach did not even know he existed. How could he make an impression? For two days, Steve was depressed, even his half hard prick was unable to get him excited. Then on Friday afternoon, as he showered after a long work out with the weights, he heard someone call his name. He had to pause to listen a second time, because who the fuck would be calling him at 6:00 p.m. in the showers... shit he thought he was the last person in the lockerroom. Then he heard the voice gain, booming his name. "Wilson...god-damn-it, can't you hear? Get a fucking towel and get into my office you dumb-fuck." It was coach, shit, what did he want.... Steve grabbed a towel from the nearby bin, and wrapped it around his waist. Then he padded on his heavily muscled feet down the corridor of the lockerroom to the coaching offices. There was only one light on, so he opened the door to the suite, and walked across the soft rug into the open door from where the light was shining. His body was still dripping water from his hair and underarms, and he had the sweet smell of Irish Spring. The thick hair on his legs, ass, arms glistened.
"Hey Coach, what's up?"
"Get in and close the door Wilson...."
Steve followed the instructions, unconsciously pulling his towel tighter around his waist. Then he turned to face the forty year old man, with grey sprinkled through his dark brown hair and sideburns. His chest was covered in dark hair with the same grey mixed among the dense mat, but his forearms and legs which were similarly forested, were still dark and shiny. Coach only had on a pair of sweat pants, and his size twelve feet complemented his 6' 3" frame. Somehow Steve felt small in front of this man...who was flicking the long thick toes on his crossed feet, his muscular arms resting behind his head. For some reason, Coach Barnwell had his dark glasses on.
"So Wilson, how're gonna make the squad?"
The question was so simple, so direct and so surprising that Steve just stood there looking impassively at the dark glasses staring at him. Finally, he said in a low tone, "I dunno Coach, I was hoping you could give me some pointers and I could prepare for the test. I really want to be on the team Coach, so you tell me what to do and I'll get working on it...I promise." Steve hoped this earnest response would make the Coach think better of him, and maybe he could find out if the test was going to be a match with another middle-weight, or a time run, or maybe weights. Whatever, he was ready to do what it took. Now a slight hint of perspiration under his arms began to join the remaining drops of soap and shower water as the Coach's stern countenance behind those glasses unnerved him.
"Would you do anything to make this squad Wilson, anything I asked you to do?" Coach's voice was steady and deep, ballsy.
"Sure Coach, you know how much I wanna be one of the guys...I worked my ass off to get on the team...I won't stop now until you tell me I'm done."
"Well, Wilson, I know a way you can make the team...and you won't have to bust your ass, so to speak...but I will." Steve looked perplexed by Coach Barnwell's comments. The former Marine always seemed s aloof, so distant...and now he was speaking in riddles. "I'll give you a way to get on the team but it's gonna be between you and men kid. So if you want to make the squad, knuckle me and say after me: "I Steve Willson [I Steve Wilson], solemnly swear [solemnly swear], that I will do whatever Coach Barnwell asks me to do [that I will do whatever Coach Barnwell asks me to do], and I will never, never question his instructions [I will never, never question his instructions]."
Steve didn't know why, but just the way the Coach made him swear allegiance, and the deep voice tones of the Coach's timber, made his cock swell slightly under his towel. "Fuck he thought, what the fuck is that about...Jesus Christ, I better now spring a boner now....shit..." Now the perspiration was forming on his upper lip, and he felt a drop roll down his ass crack and find its way to his pink anal slit.
"Here kid, drink this little cup of whiskey, and I'll have one with ya, a token of our mutual commitment." Steve thought this was way strange, the Coach offering him alcohol. But he wasn't going to queer this deal...Coach was giving him an opportunity to make the team, and he promised not to question his orders. Hell, why not toast to his good fortune, especially if the Coach was making him a special guy on the team...hell, he'd drink more than one toast to get that advantage.
This wasn't the first time Steve had followed instructions obediently, even when he thought they were strange. When he was fourteen, he attended a CYO camp, and after hours, he had waited patiently until he was sure the guys sleeping near him were asleep before he bunched a towel under his crotch, and began a systematic if controlled thrusting to relieve his overwrought boner. His weiner was sticky with teen fuck lube, drooling from his piss lips the moment the lights went out. So after the appropriate time, and the deep breathing of his near bedmates, Steve made deliberate and deep plunges into the towel, grinding his itchy cock head into the soft cotton, making the material swab and scrub his helplessly horny glans penis. Then suddenly, in the dark, his worst nightmare. His blanket and sheet were unceremoniously dragged from his body, revealing his pajama bottoms below his thighs, at his knees, and exposing his strong, dimpled butt cheeks. Steve turned over, and grasped the towel to his crotch, looking up in fear as he tried to focus on dim figure silhouetted and looming over him. The hoarse but harsh whisper that followed made his realize it was young Father Christianson. "Steve, what in the name of the saints are you doing? Get out of that bed, right now, and come with me...you disgusting animal...get up." Steve wanted to say something, but he was so embarrassed, so chagrinned, he just got up, and yanked his pajama bottoms up over his buns, then followed barefoot behind the Father who walked quickly, but quietly through the cabin.
"Get in here you sick pervert," the young father said in low, hushed tones as he grabbed Steve's shoulder and steered him into the exercise room adjacent to the cabins. Steve looked down at his shapely feet, the thick toes gripping the floor in nervous strain. "Do you hear me, you little bastard, what were you doing in that bed? What were you doing?!" What Steve did not know was that under his tunic that hung down over his slacks and crotch, the young father was sporting his own thick stiffie. From the time he went into the priesthood, the young Father fought with his demons, and one of them was his uncontrollable lust for men and boys. And standing before him was this beautiful physical specimen, his turgid nipples pointing out from his mounded pecs, his pajama bottoms bulging obscenely from the rampant male member still hard from the earlier bout of frottage, creating a wet stain on the soft, thin material. Inside the Father's trousers, underneath his white briefs, his eight inches of thick Pennsylvania rural trash cock. Like Steve, Father would retreat into his room at night, and strip down to reveal his naturally well formed body, and then lubricate his palm with liquid soap then begin to work his bloated prong. "Aaaaaaaggghhhhhhh, it felt so good to masturbate his turgid prick, to exorcize the demons that lived within him, and to work his leaky penis until it unloaded the wads and wads of sticky spunk that would shoot high above his body in long ropey streams. He would continue to punish his unruly prick after these deliciously wicked sessions, in a post ejaculatory guilt that continuing to manipulate his overly sensitive prick cap would somehow assuage. Of course, even that stroking would wring evil, nasty writhing and grinding of his ass on the bed. Father would milk as much punishment as he could from his offending member, and so he would often drag it out as long as he could without screaming out in his small apartment from the excruciating fondling.
"Father, I'm sorry...I've got these boners, you know, guys get `em, and I can't make them go away unless I, ah, you know, I ah relieve myself...." Steve's voice trailed off, and he rocked from foot to foot as he spoke, his eyes still looking down away from the Father's penetrating glare.
"I'm going to help you Steve, but you are going to have to trust me...and do what I say. Do you understand?"
"Okay Father, whatever you say, just don't tell my parents, I'm sorry, I'll try harder, I won't do it again, please."
"Just do what I say Steve...." So as Steve listened to Coach, he knew what he had to do, follow instructions. That night, when he was fourteen, the Father had made him kneel on one of the exercise stools, and lower his pajama bottoms. Then Father took a ruler and told him he was going to spank Steve while he milked the sin from his wicked penis. That from now on, every time he thought of masturbating, he would think of the pain of being spanked and humiliated. Steve had to put his hands behind his head, and leaned down on the stool, he jerked and grunted as he felt the Father's big paw close around his throbbing erection, and then the ruler hit, "Thwack!" Twelve straight time, Father brought the ruler down on the firm buns of the fourteen year old hunk, and fourteen times Father's slippery palm slid up and down the pulsing shaft and caressed the swollen knob, of Steve's raging teenage erection. Finally, on the twelfth swat, "Thwack..." Steve shot ropes of boy spunk into the Father's roiling fist. "Ooooohhhh, oooohhhhhh.....Faaaatttthhhherrrr....pleaaassssseee... oooooohhhhh, oooooohhhhh!" For almost half a minute after he had forced the young athlete to ejaculate, Father Christiansen stripped the shaft and knob, over and over, making the young boy squeal and whimper from the sensation. Then he stopped.
"Let that be a lesson to you Steve. God has given you an athlete's body and strength, and you have sinned a mortal sin. I have given you a trial of pain to show you that you must never do this sin again. Man's seed is to be shared with women in the sacred rite of procreation...not for dissolute depravity. So you will wash your hands for me every night of camp, before dinner as I watch, to make you remember how nasty you have been. Now, go to bed." Steve whimpered from the stinging sensation on his ass, and pulled up his pajama bottoms, brushing his sensitive glans at the same time, causing him to hunch. But he followed the Father's orders, and went back to his cabin and fell into a deep and fitfull sleep. But back in the exercise room, a trembling Father burst into ejaculation as he brought his sticky palm to his face, breathed in the starchy, clorine scent of the boy sperm, and then involuntarily licked his palm to taste the tangy sauce. Oh God, he thought, what an animal I am, an animal...."
Now, standing in front of Coach Barnwell, Steve was ready to do what he had to earn his keep, and be accepted on the team. He was a good boy, the kind of boy that all men want to marry their daughters, and he was ready to prove that to his Coach. The burning taste of the whiskey he swallowed too fast hid the mixture coach had prepared for him...a combination of Viagra and a roofie that made Steve sway a bit on his feet, feel light-headed, and fuck...his cock was beginning to erect fully under his towel. He placed his hands down at his crotch, to make sure that his prick would not burst through the opening of the towel folds, and humiliate him in front of the coach. But even as he felt like he might faint, he could see the coach looking at him with a kind of crooked smile from behind his dark glasses...."
Coach Barnwell had been waiting for this chance, for this opportunity to put one of his boys under his thumb. From high school, through twelve years in the Marines, and then as a married man and coach at three different schools, he had walked the straight and narrow, except once. And now, he was going to recapture that one time, but on his terms. Twenty years earlier, when he was 25 years old and a master sergeant, Brison Barnwell was assigned to an arrogant Lt. in Supply Division. Brison wanted to be assigned to one of the armored divisions, or armaments. But instead he had been sent to Supply and to this tight-assed blond punk, Lt. Arness Cameron III. The Lt. was 30 years old, and had pale blue eyes that were cold as steel. Barnwell hated him after one week, and now, ten weeks later, he was in his room stripped naked, blindfolded, on his knees with his legs tied apart to the bed posts and his hands cuffed behind him. A film of sweat covered his hairy torso...knowing what was coming.
Cameron had discovered that Barnwell had been giving himself extra leave and signing the Lt.'s name so he could go to town and meet his girlfriend for a regular screw session. For Barnwell, the relief of fucking his girlfriend and asserting his manhood made it bearable to go and face his shit-head superior, Cameron. Worse yet, was Cameron's stature. The prick was only 5'8"...tightly built, and a mere runt from the perspective of Brison. But when the cool Lt. confronted him with the evidence of his wrong-doing, and gave him the choice of resigning from the Marines or spending a night with him for some "old fashioned" discipline, Barnwell tightened his jaw, ground his teeth, and accepted the offer. Now he was on the bed in his room, stripped and bound, and ready to be humbled...all 6'2" of big boy Marine.
Lt. Cameron was the youngest and smallest of three sons of a career Army man. His brothers, three and five years older had always teased him for being the smallest and the weakest...his mother's favorite, her baby. Whenever his parents were away, his brothers would make his life hell. When he was eleven, they found out he was ticklish and they would gang up on him, stretch his arms over his head, and while one would hold his arms, and lock his legs, the other would move from his armpits, to his stomach, to his knees and finally his feet and make him squeal with laughter and beg for mercy. When they discovered that the tickling made his four inch pricklet turn into a rigid spike, they lubricated their fists and one would masturbate him while the other tickled. Arness hated the torture and learned to love the masturbation....so much so, that he began to fantasize how his brother's pricks' would look erect and feel if he could masturbate them. He would slick up his firm pricklet at night in his bed and masturbate furiously wondering if his brothers felt the exquisite shooting sensations and prickling when his boy fist slid over his bloated mushroom cap. Over the years, he would hide out hoping to sneak a peak at his brothers when they jerked off their big boy pricks. He caught his second brother only once, when his older brother was out on a date, and after he had come home from hanging out with his buddies. Arness snuck down the hallway and looked through the keyhole to see his well built brother lying naked on his back, his feet hanging over the bed and planted on the floor, and his fist sliding up and down his bloated shaft, and palming the cockhead. After ten minutes of frenzied jerking, using his free hand to pull on his low hanging nuts, and to palm his chest and pecs, Arness saw the thick ropes of sperm jettison from his brother's thick, fat prick. Even as he watched, his own fist was gripping his turgid pricklet through his pajama bottoms and sliding the soft material over the aching knoblet. As his brother groaned and shot wads of sperm, Arness felt his own little erection throb and pulse through a satisfying dry cum that made him squeeze his legs together tight. He would later see his older brother with his girlfriend out in the driveway, late one night, driving his even bigger boner in and out of the girl's tight quim, making her moan and toss her head, as he sucked her rigid nipples, and fucked her senseless. He pulled out just before he came and she put a cloth over his spurting knob, milking the sticky gism from the quaking penis, and making his brother writhe as she cleaned him up and prevented the copious juice from soiling the car seat. Arness grew up, and kept his secret. But when he got into the military, he found a wealth of brainless boys whom he could dominate by virtue of his rank. Many a big boned straight boy had been reduced to a whimpering dog, licking the feet of Arness Cameron III. He rarely went after the same man twice, and tonight, having the condescending big body of his jerk sergeant, Brison Barnwell, was just what his leaky prick needed. There was nothing like brining down big boys, boys like his brothers.
Barnwell was sweating now...drips of his fear leaking from under his armpits and the dense bush there, to the table top. The hair in his ass crack was wet, wet from the drops of sweat that were dripping down his deep crack from his lower back. Suddenly, he felt the hand of his nemesis on his neck, holding him steady...and down. Then a thick, stubby finger was trolling between the lush hair in his anal crack, rooting down to find his half inch long, ragged slit. "Fuck...no...not that...oh Jesus Christ...not that, noooo, nnnooooooo...." Barnwell prayed. Cameron spoke, "Open your mouth fuck-face." Barnwell turned and was going to tell the little shit to fuck himself, and when he opened his mouth a ball-gag was inserted and swiftly buckled behind his head. He yelled, but all that came out was a muffled....."AAAWWWWWWWWWGGGGGGGGG!"
"Now, you big dicked numb-nuts, I'm going to give you some special training that will make you get closer to your `inner' feelings, so to speak." His hand went back to Barnwell's neck, and his curious digit went back to scratching the nether lips of Barnwell's ass pucker...a place where no man had gone before. "Yeah, that's it big guy, squirm and buck a bit...I like seeing those long toes curl up...ya scared...don't be.... I'm going to make you feel amazing." Cameron's blunt index finger used the perspiration in Barnwell's crack to lubricate its insistent prodding of the resistant portal. He was patient, patient to a maddening distraction and to Barnwell's eternal regret. After ten minutes of tickling, scratching and pushing, the thick fingertip slipped inside when Cameron strategically reached under Barnwell and pinched one of the turgid nipples that had been unmolested to that point. Barnwell gasped in shock from the amazing sensation at his rarely touched nipple, and forgot the stout defense of his anus. When the finger slipped in, Barnwell tried to break it...he clenched his muscular glutes and squeezed as hard as he could. But the ruthless Lt. only laughed at his efforts, and waited him out. When he finally weakened, the finger slid in further, and further until it reached the straight sergeant's fuck nut. When his finger pad slid over the donut deep inside Barnwell, the Sergeant squealed in pain and then groaned in...in something Barnwell had never felt, did not understand. In moments, he realized that his penis was throbbing between his legs. As he struggled to come to terms with the sensations making him twist his hips, and even drive toward the nasty finger fucking him, he heard something that made him feel faint. There was a buzzing-whirring near his ear... Cameron has switched on a small vibrating dildo, and was running back and forth over Barnewell's neck and ears. The buzzing and the rubbing, deep up his rectum, made Brison's pulsing boner drool copiously beneath him, creating a pool of fuck lube that made his prick knob tingle as it slid back and forth in the sticky residue on the smooth surface of the table. By the end of the evening, Barnwell had cum three times, the first from the slender vibrating prod, and twice later from the thick cudgel of Cameron's unrelenting prick, pronging the sergeant as the Lt.'s fist squeezed and milked his boner until it spit and spit scum on the table. From that night on, Brison Barnwell hid his shame, and his lust. Like Lt. Cameron, Brison Barnwell had discovered something inside him that he wanted to feel again, but this time, from the other side, the side of the top, not the bottom.
Steve Wilson was about to learn how long his coach had been waiting to take another male of short stature, and dominate him into becoming his punk. The effects of the whiskey shots, laced with both Viagra and the date-rape drug were having an effect on Steve. He felt drunk and dizzy, but his towel kept inching open more and more, as his prick filled out, and began to leak. Shit, he pressed his hand more firmly to keep his erection from showing, but the way his head felt, it seemed hard to concentrate. "Ah, Coach...I'm feel weird, can I sit down..." Steve asked, needing a place to sit and then press his unruly boner down between his legs.
"Don't be a stupid fuck, Wilson...put your hands back behind your head...both of em, and spread your legs like parade rest.' Do it Wilson," the Coach ordered without a cold, steely basso. Steve began to rock on his feet, his head swimming and his eye lids getting heavy, but his cock was out of control. When he lifted his hands back to his place them behind his head, he almost stumbled, and worse yet, his thick, hard weiner poked through the towel, it angry red head wet and sticky with his clear lube. In almost a trance, he watched as the rigid prick climbed, pushing the towel folds apart as it rose, and aiming up towards his Coach who sat in the chair, expressionless behind those dark glasses. At the same time, even though he felt faint, it seemed to Steve that he could see something happening in Coach's sweats...the thick cotton material was tenting, and it seemed like a flagpole was rising in Coach's crotch. Steve swallowed hard, his throat going dry, his head beginning to sway and bob on his neck and shoulders.
"You're horny Steve, look down at your prick, sticking out of your towel like a faggot flagpole...look at it Steve...." Coach Barnwell said evenly, and without a hint of surprise.
Steve looked down at his angry erection, throbbing and leaking. He blushed deeply, but felt too weak and dizzy to do anything. He moved awkwardly to cover his boner, but Barnwell ordered him to keep his hands behind his head. Steve groaned out loud, and his head leaned backwards, eyes closed, and his hips reflexively thrust out, droplets of his sticky lube dropping from his wide pisslips to the floor below. "Coach" he moaned, "please coach, I can't....I can't stop it...jeeez...I dunno, I dunno why it's happening Coach, please, lemme put some sweats on, pleeeaaaaasssseeee."
"You're a fuckwad Steve, a big dicked punk who needs to be supervised. I bet you play with that nasty fuck stick every chance you get...that right Steve, are you a jerk-off? Tell me, boy...you play with that dick all the time...you wanna play with it...?" Coach Barnwell knew that the combination of drugs he had given Steve, the Viagra, the whiskey, and the roofie, were all making him helpless to do anything but what the Coach wanted. Plus, Barnwell knew the kid wanted desperately to be on the team, and to please him...he had little Steve Wilson just where he wanted him.
Steve continued to moan softly, and when the Coach asked if he was a masturbator, like a man taking a lie-detector test, his prick fully erected and pulsed, more lubricant drooling out of the lips and dripping down to the floor. Finally, Barnwell smiled, he knew he'd hit the nail on the head. "Coach, I know it's not right...I try Coach, I try to be good. I go to mass, I go to confession...but, jeez Coach, a guy's got needs. I can't be a monk. I don't fuck chicks like some douche bag, so I try to be good...."
"What do you do Steve, how do you masturbate...." the Coach insisted.
"Aw fuck Coach, pleaaasssee, I don't wanna say...please Coach" Steve begged.
But Barnwell was unrelenting. "I told you Wilson, you had to follow my orders, do whatever I asked. If you can't keep your word, then get outta my office." He was closing the trap.
"Jesus Christ...I dunno...common Coach, don't make me talk about this stuff, I wanna be on the team, I want to be team player Coach, but jeezus....you know...guys don't talk about this kind of stuff..." Even as Steve spoke, his prick throbbed and drooled more...the knob fully covered in the sticky residue of his lube, beginning to itch as the goop on the edge of his glans, around the flange, began to dry. He wanted desperately to touch his cock, but Coach had given him orders, so he stood upright as best he could, his thick boy tool obscenely thrusting out towards the Coach as he sat in his chair, his own erection tenting his sweats and making a wet spot where his cock head was rubbing against the soft, scratchy cotton.
"Wilson, I want you to stick the index finger of your right hand in your mouth and suck it...get it nice and wet."
"Steve opened his eyes and stared vacantly at Coach Barnwell...confused. Why did he want him to suck his finger. Anyway, it saved him from having to describe to the Coach how and when he masturbated. Reluctantly, almost like a little kid, Steve put his thick digit into his mouth and suckled on it, savoring the rough texture of the fingertip and letting his tongue lave it in an almost erotic act of fellatio on a finger.
"Now Steve, I want you to follow my instructions exactly. Listen closely...I want you to take that finger and using it with our thumb, I want you to take your right nipple between your index finger and thumb, and role your tit. As you do it, I want you to start slowly, and in detail, and tell me how you masturbate that big fucking dick of yours...understand?"
"Ooooooohhhhhhh shit....please coach....aaaaawwwwwww fuck....Steve's head was really swimming. But like an obedient son, his finger moved as if it had volition of its own and joining his thumb, reached down and grasped his already erect and coned nipple thrusting out of the mounded pec. "Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh" he groaned as the ticklish sensation of his fingers twisting the turgid tit flesh made him shift from one foot to the other, his head turning back and forth, and his fingers tightening, making the whorish tit even more demanding of attention.
"Now speak you dickwad...tell me how you jerk your big dick...." Barnwell let his tongue slide across his lips, moistening them, his breath coming a bit faster as he watched the young jock perform lewdly for him, the kid's huge prick pulsing with each twist of the nipple, and the lube drool dropping every few seconds from the fat, sticky plum knob.
Slowly, and reluctantly, Steve described how he would fuck the pillow, and bring himself to shattering ejaculations on the weekends. As he did so, he was continuing to twist his stiff teat, grunting and groaning as he talked about his uncontrollable masturbation. The more he talked, the easier it became, and his cock ached from the need to play with it...but Coach Barnwell never gave him permission to do anything but flick his tit. By the time he finished talking, the Coach had him working both nips, pinching them gently, and scratching his thick fingernails across them. When he got to the point where he described his cum, his hips involuntarily bucked and the towel fell to the floor, revealing his heavy, hanging balls, and the full boy prong, hard and wet.
Coach made Steve get down on his knees and crawl over to him. The boy's bubble butt thrust out behind him, while his thick prong swayed, splattering lube on his thighs and the floor as he crawled over to do his master's bidding. Coach's heart was beating fast, even as his expression remained cold and blank behind his dark glasses. The kid was surrendering, doing his bidding, giving him the kind of prick slave he had longed to have when he masturbated in the shower, or watched the boys getting dressed after practice or matches. He had never acted on his desires, but there was something about this jock punk a vulnerability, a naiveté, a dumb innocence that made him so ripe, so perfect to meet Brison's needs. When he finally got between Barnwell's outspread knees, Brison lifted one of his muscled feet still damp from his shower, and using his thick big toe, he etched the features of the handsome athlete's face, his toenail gently scratching the nose, eyes, ears, chin, Adam's apple, and finally, his lips. Then he forced the big toe into Steve's mouth and in a hoarse, husky whisper ordered the boy to look him in the face as he suckled on the thick, hairy digit. Barnwell remember how his cock lurched and dripped when Lt. Cameron's thick toes were forced into his mouth to service. It was disgusting, it was nasty, it was pathetic, and his cock never felt so hard as when Cameron would slide the thick big toe into his mouth, brush over his teeth, scratch his upper palate, and stroke his tongue. Now he had this hard dicked wrestle jock on his kness sucking his toes. Steve was too far gone to do anything but comply. He was mesmerized by Coach Barnwell as he had been by Father Christensen and his teenage camp buddy, Carey Larson. For some reason, Coach's big toe fucking his mouth made him feel so horny, so ready to cum...he could hardly breathe. Steve had been bred for sexual domination, and finally, a man was taking control of his uncontrollable needs and desires, a man who could help him supervise his big boy boner.
Later, after Steve had sucked both sets of toes on Coach's big feet, Coach grasped him by his hair and pulled him up to sniff the crotch of his sweats. The heavy starchy scent of ball sweat made him feel faint, but was nothing compared to what he had to do next. Coach lifted his hips, and ordered the subservient jock punk to pull his sweat pants to his ankles...and then to service him like the faggot he was.
"Yeah, that's it Wilson...look at that cock, a man's big fat cock...that's what you want, and that's what you need, in your mouth and in your ass. Brison's big huge curved scimitar with is oversized knob, was sticky with lube. The thick cock root led down to a forest of thick hair. The circumcision scar was wide and wet with the Coach's sap. Barnwell lifted his big legs and draped them over the arms of the stuffed chair, exposing his hairy balls, drooling prick, and hairy asshole. Barnwell had a long, ragged split between his ass cheeks, clean and pink, buried in a forest of hair and now wet with sweat from watching Steve Wilson debase himself. "Lick it, Wilson...lick my hairy hole...show me just how much you want to be my boy!" Barnwell let his head rest back on the back of chair, his fingers tweaking his tits, as the nasty scene unfolded and like a zombie, Steve moved into to lave the Coach's anal slot.
Grunting from the intoxicating scent of the ball sweat, Steve closed his eyes and let his long tongue snake out from his parted lips and troll through the wet hair until it found the tight split of Coach's anus. He heard the big man groan helplessly from the sensation of the boy's tongue dragging back and forth, and probing into the surrendering lips of the asshole. Coach's head was lolling back and forth, his tits were stiff rivets thrusting out to meet his rough fingers as they tweaked and tugged on the sensitive tips. Steve's nose was resting under the Coach's heavy nut sack, and the slimy balls, only just wet with ball sweat after his shower and while watching the jock submit, made Steve feel helpless.
"Lick my balls, Wilson...yeah...oh fuck yes...lick em....yeah, like that...drag that nasty tongue of yours over my spooge sacks...oh shit...so good...sniff em Wilson...smell what pussies like to smell when I fuck `em...smell by big nuts, oh yeah..... You're no better than the cunts I fuck Wilson...you want my big body, want to service me, to please me... oh fuck yes, that's what you are, a boy cunt with an oversized clit between your legs. Well, I'm gonna make sure you get what you need, and not let you scratch that itch too much...cause cunts like you are spunk hounds, and we can't let you get too much. You'll lose concentration and become any old whore. No, I'm gonna train you Wilson, train you good." Coach Barnwell panted as he spoke, the boy's velvet tongue thrilling him and making his cock throb. Perspiration was beginning to drip from Brison's temple, form over his lip and under his nose, join with his deodorant under his arms.
The Coach's dirty talk only made Steve more drunk and horny, more unable to control himself... he was lost in the smell and the power of Barnwell's body. It was a short route from the heavy, hairy testicles up the cock ridge, to the spongy, fat knob of Barnwell's prick and the sensitive circumcision scar. Coach made Steve grasp the boner and hold it up and away from his stomach, so Steve could stare at the Coach at the same time he licked and swabbed the sticky, drooling knob of Brison's turgid prick. When Steve was ordered to close his mouth around the fat glans, and suckle it like a popsicle, Brison thought he might ejaculate...his toes curling reflexively from the tingling sensation and the awful tickle. But he gritted his teeth, and squeezed his ass muscles until the sensation was suppressed; only a little of his sperm burped out, and the closed his eyes tightly as the boy twisted his head back and forth, slashing his tongue as instructed by Barnwell to worship the pulsing prick knob and make the big man ache for his ejaculation.
For Barnwell, the torture of allowing Steve to rape his cock knob was the kind of pain and pleasure he loved, craved. No woman had been able to satisfy him, none could give him the thrill of being serviced like this...like making the memory of Lt. Cameron get on his knees and suck his cock. Then, he ordered Steve to do something no one had done since Cameron...he ordered the boy to lube his middle finger with Barnwell's own cock lube, and then slowly, very slowly, put it in his ass. Barnwell had been waiting, needing, to feel something up his ass since the days of Lt. Cameron's supervision of him. He never forget the sweet ache of the smaller man's thick, blunt fingers, prying into his rectum and seeking his fuck nut, masturbating him from the inside out. Just the thought would make him clench his ass cheeks and squeeze his anus shut...and then, when he was showering, he would soap and slip a pinkie in...making his cock go hard and start to leak, just from the sensation of touching his anus, much less penetrating it. Now, as the boy suckled his over-wrought cock knob, he flexed his toes as Steve's now lube coated fuck finger, slid ever so slowly into his rectum...twisting and rubbing the walls until he found the rubbery donut of the older man's prostate. Gently, as instructed, Steve rubbed the achey spot, unaware of how tightly Coach Barnwell was curling his toes. He did see the Coach reach up and twist his own tit so Steve's other hand could hold Coach's cock steady as the jock punk worked his lips relentlessly over the fevered glans of Barnwell's prick knob.
"Yesssssss.....oh fuck yes....you slimy Catholic runt-cunt....suck my fat dick and fuck my ass, oooooohhhhhhhhh yeeeeeaaaahhhhh....oooooooohhhhh ffffuuuuuuccccckkkkkk....!" Barnwell tightened his ass muscles as his ejaculation worked from the base of his balls and the sweet spot in his rectum, up the cock root to the bloating glans penis and the ticklish circumcision scar...expanding the overwrought tip and making it go glass smooth. The Coach's deep piss lips split open and rope after rope of thick, viscous, white sperm bolted into Steve's siphoning mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, his eyes now closed from the humiliation of being on his knees, sucking another man's prick and drinking his baby juice as if Coach could get him pregnant from the thick sticky stuff just by swallowing it.
Fifteen minutes later, Steve was on the Coach's desk, his head resting on a towel, his feet tethered to the corners, his ass up and his cheeks spread. Now it was Steve's turn to clench his toes and curl them tight in anticipation. Right behind Steve, Barnwell was rubbing his still erect prick, back and forth against the split of Steve's tight boy quim...making the teenager gasp and wheeze from the impending fuck. Brison ordered the boy to push out on his anus as if he was shitting, and as he did so, the fat plum of Barnwell's prick knob pushed past the sphincter and popped into the prostrate boy's rectum...snaking in, in search of his virgin prostate. Barnwell reached round and opened a bottle of popper under the hapless athlete's nostrils, rendering him weaker than the roofie and Viagra had already man him; making his head swim even more.
"AAAAWWWWWWWW.....FUUUUUUCCCCKKKKK....COACH, AAAAGGHHHHHH, COACH, NO, NO...OOOOOOOHHHHH GOOOOODDDDD DDDDAAAAMMMNNNN....AAAAAHHHH!" Steve surrendered, and let Coach Barnwell slide his bloated prong deep into the boy's sundered ass, screwing him in a steady rhythm and making sure to bang against his sensitive and until his moment, untouched prostate. The Viagra had kept his prick wet and stiff, and finally, someone was touching it. While coach used one hand to reach under the boy's chest and pinch his tits, he used his other hand to form a corkscrew motion around the sticky knob of Steve's unruly boner. His calloused fist worked the sensitive boy glans, making him wheeze and whine from the ticklish sensation, his fingernail gently scratching the circumcision scar, making Steve's glans bloat reflexively just from the sensation. And as his cock head expanded, the Coach's fist twisted it mercilessly, torturing squeals from the big dicked jock and making him beg for more.
"Oh yeah boy...that's it, be my slut...yeah, that's it Wilson, I'm gonna make you my dog and yer gonna lick my balls, suck my toes, and drink my spunk whenever I tell you to, and yer gonna get to be on the team so you can do it when I want it. Like that boy, like the way I'm fucking your tight hole, and rubbing that needy knob...ooooohhhh yeah, you like that, grunt for me baby...beg...beg for what you need!"
"AAAGGGGHHHHH, COACH, PLLLLLEEEEZZZZZEEEE....OOOOOHHHH GOOOODDDD, HELP ME....HELP ME....AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH, YYYEEEESSSSSSSSS, THERE, PLEASE RUB ME, JERK ME COACH, MILK ME......AAAAAGGGHHHHHH!" Steve surrendered, just as he had for Carey, for the good Father, and in his bedroom every weekend to his pillow. Steve's bloated prick knob was mauled in the roiling fist of Coach Barnwell, his palm rough from weight-lifting and hard work that made his pudgey fist the perfect prison for a boy's helpless, unruly glans. Panting like a dog and then gasping for breath, Steve's prick swelled on last time, the knob becoming like a glass ball, then he squirted cum like he was pissing, firing ropes of the sperm across the desk top, wetting the entire surface and filling the air with the chlorine smell of teenage spunk. Steve' squealed and squealed like a pig when the coach would not release his knob, and continued to strip and palm it after the boy had cum. He fucked the boy for two more minutes, the tightening of the boy's rectum when he came and from the relentless palming of his too sensitive cock knob, bringing Barnwell close to his second cum in an hour... but it was the whining and writhing boy beneath him that made him reach the plateau his had wanted to climb. Steve was unable to go soft after he had cum because the Coach just kept working his helpless knob, and his brainless cock would not go soft. The teenage jock's cries for mercy were music to Brison's ears, and he picked up the speed of his fuck, thrusting deeply and firmly until the tingle came again, his cock went rigid and the cock head bloated within the gripping, tight confines of Steve's rectum.
"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK.....YES, YES.....OOOOOHHHHH GOD DAMN....YOU FAGGOT PUNK....I NAILED YOU, YER MY CUNT DUMP....AAAAAHHHH, YEEEESSSSSSSS....OOOOOOHHHHHH FFFUUUCCCKKKK YEEEEESSSSSSS!"
That was the beginning of Steve Wilson involuntary servitude. For three more years he was Brison Barnwell's personal fuck punk...servicing the coach discreetly. Steve never showered with the team, except on road trips, because his cock was caged and bound under his clothes. Brison never let Steve play with himself. He could only piss through the mesh cage, but the little lock underneath his balls kept hiM carefully constrained and constantly horny. He was able to achieve almost a full erection, but not enough to achieve ejaculation.
His usual method of ejaculation was to be on his knees leaning backwards on Brison's desk, his torso angled backwards towards his feet, with one hand supporting him while the other masturbated in front of the coach. Barnwell liked to make the boy feel like a child, reduce him to a teenage punk who masturbated in front of others because he was unable to manage his own cock. Sometimes Steve would have to do it with a batting glove coated in lubricant focused only on his engorged cock knob and dragging squeals and grunts from the helpless teen who was addicted to playing with his own cock since that was the only sex he was allowed. Sometimes Brison would make Steve use a soft bristled brush, torturing his lubricated glans until he spurted ropes of teen gism from the agonizing tickle of the cruel bristles. Other times, Steve would be required to use a latex cunt, fucking it as a substitute for the real pussy he would not be allowed to enjoy. But whatever the method, Steve was never allowed to cum on his own. There were times he would have to piss and shit in front of the coach, and he often received enemas, self-administered while the Coach supervised. Then after he had been given an opportunity to cum, he would turn around and surrender his asshole to the Coach's thick prong...letting himself get fucked into another cum with his constantly erect prick being milked again, and sometimes two more times before the coach ejaculated up his rectum.
Masturbation had led to Steve Wilson's surrender, and his sexual enslavement. An undersized boy jock, with a big bone and a need to cum, had been captured by his inability to control the urges and demands of his penis. By the time he graduated, with two years of varsity letters and three years on the team, and a grade-point average that would get him into a master's program at a middling Midwestern university, Steve was fully managed and manageable, especially if you had hold of his prick. Over time, a number of strong, big men would relieve the hunky former wrestler of that responsibility.